Father's Touch
by Pyrrhic Lotus
Summary: [No pairing.] "Only Angel could hurt him this much." Darker look at Conner and Angel's relationship (or lack thereof). R&R.


**Title**: Father's Touch

**Disclaimer**: All my base are belong to Joss.

**Author's Note**: Set before Angel and co. ended Jasmine's rule, but after they were all released from her spell. A bit on the darker side of things concerning Angel and Connor's relationship (or lack thereof).

* * *

Connor sits still, very still, his entire face numb from where Angel's hands – cold, hard knuckles and fists; like stone, but not – had crushed and torn his skin in a flurry of punches that caused his entire head to swing wildly – a curtain of soft hair flying back and forth with each bone-crunching blow. He'd been thrown down the fire escape, his left leg catching the edge of the railing just enough to right his body so he landed on the car below in a perfectly horizontal position, not quite blacking out (no, fate never was very nice to him) as his weight crushed heavily into the windshield and his Dad leaped down afterwards, throwing him off the hood and to the side like nothing more than trash.

He hits the brick wall of the hotel, and he swears his bones shatter like glass when he does.

He hears them speaking inside the car – hears them, but doesn't listen. He rarely does. And it doesn't matter, because the car – loud like nails on a chalkboard to his heightened sense of hearing – screeches off seconds later, leaving him – his broken body – in the dust.

They left him.

Had his entire face not been so damn numb, he might have cried. Might have sobbed and curled into a ball, and wished hotly and stupidly for the chance to go back and stop himself from making them all believe that he was still under her spell.

Might have stared at them all with deadened eyes, and pretended to miss Jasmine's love. Pretended that he had felt it, as they had. Might have pretended to be so beside himself with grief that he would be unable to control his need to hug the closest thing.

Might have even hugged Angel.

Might have made Angel feel like everything was all right. Just for a moment, because it would have been the first time that Connor had ever hugged him. Might have denied it later – snapped about not remembering doing anything that involved hugging – which might have made Fred give a tiny knowing smile behind his back, as she and Gunn and Wes would all pretend like they were studiously forming plans that would lead to Jasmine's downfall.

But might-haves weren't, and Connor sat very still instead, his throbbing, numb, bloody face slumping down into his chest as he might have cried if he wasn't quite so sure that his eyes would explode straight out of his head if he even thought of moving.

Shaky inhalation after shaky inhalation brought him the scent of Cordelia's blood smeared all across his chest; and remembrance of the feeling of Angel's cold, cold hands squeezing his arms so hard it hurt to buck almost as much as it had hurt when the cold knife cut through his skin nearly broke him; nearly but not quite.

He could hear Jasmine's steps, regal and unhurried, on the fire escape as she calmly walked down, her legion of mindless disciples disrupting her pace with heady footsteps that pounded against the metal and vibrated painfully in Connor's ears in their rush to save her 'exalted Father'.

They jostled and manhandled him, even in their attempts to be careful. But Connor doesn't care. Not any more – he wonders vaguely if he ever did.

Because nothing really hurts him.

Nothing, but his Father.

Nothing but those cold, hard, angry fists that smash into him far too often – full of rage and hatred, though he keeps saying that he loveslovesloves. That can't be true. Love isn't facefulls of punches, blood and anger and HURT. Love is the smell of that perfume Cordelia likes. The way she smiles at him. The way Holtz used to pat his head twice and murmur "good boy" whenever Connor broke a record and improved just so at tracking. The way Gunn would look at Fred when they sat on the stairs and he ran his fingers through her hair while she babbled on about something scientific.

Love wasn't the HURT that Angel looked at him with. Not those dark eyes that were so laden with guilt and jealousy. Love wasn't pain. Love was happy, like clean hands after washing demon blood off of them in the stream and feeling a fish brush unknowingly across his fingertips. Like the taste of those 'Oreos' that Faith had demanded he try before the red-haired witch took her away.

And love didn't beat him so hard that he couldn't even move his face.

Because it only hurt when Angel hit him. Never anyone else – never quite like the feeling of Angel's cold hands hard and angry against his skin.

Only Angel could hurt him this much.

Only Angel.

Jasmine – her face a colony of worms and decay that don't really bother Connor; Quor'Toth had hardened him that much – was waiting for him when they brought him up to her room and laid him down on the very soft chair, her beautiful smile and all-encompassing love failing to seep into his cold, cold heart once more.

And he knows it wouldn't hurt if she hit him.


End file.
